


My Weakness I Feel I Must Finally Show

by ashavahishta



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-16
Updated: 2012-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:17:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashavahishta/pseuds/ashavahishta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Sometimes Harry just needs a little help dealing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Weakness I Feel I Must Finally Show

 

  
Louis is still in the dressing room, messing with his hair when he realises something is wrong.

"Where's Harry?" he asks. He hasn't seen him in at least fifteen minutes.

On the opposite side of the room, Niall looks up from his guitar with a frown. "Dunno," he shrugs. "Actually, where's Zayn?"

Speak of the devil, Zayn pops his head in the door a moment later. He looks stressed, his dark eyebrows knitted together in concern and his hand gripping the doorframe too tight. "Louis," he says, urgent. "Louis, can you come into the bathroom? Harry's freaking out."

The statement has an instant effect on the room. Niall puts down his guitar and runs his fingers through messy blond hair, sighing.

Liam looks up from his phone, eyes serious and worried. "Oh, no," he says softly. "You better go, Lou. You know you're the only one who can help when he's like this."

Louis turns away from his own reflection, feeling his expression twist up in concern. Unfortunately, Harry's anxiety prior to big shows is not something new, and Louis can't say he's surprised. He curses himself for not keeping a closer eye on Harry today; he'd seemed fine but maybe Louis missed something, maybe he could have helped earlier. He's moving before he even thinks about it. It's instinct, he supposes, to want to be exactly where Harry is when Harry needs him. The other boys trail after him down the hallway, exactly as Louis knew they would.

He doesn't need to warn them to stay out of the bathroom for the moment. They know full well that any more than one is entirely overwhelming when Harry's in this state. Liam squeezes Louis' shoulder as he opens the door, Zayn whispering a quick, 'Good luck,', which Louis thinks is silly because it's not him that needs luck here. But he nods reassuringly all the same.

 

 

The bathroom is small and gently lit, old bulbs lending a yellow glow to the room.

Harry is retching into the toilet in the corner.

Louis' heart clenches and he crosses the room to kneel at Harry's side. The other boy is already dressed for the show, but Louis can't see anything else except a dark mass of curls bent over the toilet, Harry's hands clenched white-knuckle tight around the edges.

Louis' stomach does a horrible swoop at the sight, and whether its in memory of the last time he himself threw up like this (after-party of some award show, with Liam laughing softly and rubbing his back) or because he can't stand to see Harry like this, Louis can't tell.

A bit of both, probably.

"Hey, there," Louis says, soft in case Harry didn't hear him come in. He reaches out a tentative hand (and god, when was the last time he was tentative about touching Harry? Only when he's like this, when Harry is sick and hurting, does Louis hesitate, because he's so desperate not to make anything worse) - and rests his palm against the curve of Harry's back. His thin white shirt is damp, his shoulders trembling slightly. "Hey, love."

Harry makes a noise that could be a grunt or a moan, some approximation of _"Lou,_ " that's so plaintive and helpless it make Louis' fingers curl into Harry's shirt. He wants to pull Harry close, bundle him into his body until Harry forgets the nerves and the show and the people and forgets there's anyone else in the world but the two of them. Maybe he will be able to do that, later, but right now Harry won't (can't) accept it, so Louis stays where he is, rubbing his palm against Harry's back in soothing circles.

It's another five minutes before he thinks it's safe to say Harry is finished. He's stopped moving altogether, his shoulders drooping. "I think that's it," he rasps, voice hoarse and grating. Louis winces and resolutely does not think about whether this will have an effect on Harry's singing tonight.

"Alright," Louis replies. "Can you stand up for me? We'll rinse your mouth out, yeah?"

Harry lifts his head, very very slowly, his fingers uncurling from the edges of the toilet. Unsurprisingly, he looks a wreck, his face pale and splotchy, hair even messier than usual from sweat. His eyes are glazed, dark green in the yellow lights of the room.

Louis loves him so much it's ridiculous.

"There you are," he says, trying for a quick smile. Harry doesn't return it, but his lips do quirk very slightly at the corners.

"Help me up?"

He sways on his feet a bit when he stands, but Harry manages to lean over the sink and take a few mouthfuls of water. He swishes it in his mouth and spits it out, making a face. "Ugh," he groans in disgust.

"Yep," Louis says, voice full of false cheer. He digs into his pocket and produces a crumpled packet of gum, pressing it into Harry's hand.

Harry actually does smile at that. "You're a saint, Louis Tomlinson."

Louis snorts, because they both know how very not true _that_ statement is.

They're silent for awhile as Harry chews, and Louis watches him carefully. He can usually read Harry better than anybody, knows his body as intimately as his own, and what he's reading now is that Harry is not okay, not yet.

At least at this point he's moved past vomiting, which Louis counts as a mini-win.

After a few minutes Harry starts to pace around the small room, his hands twitching. He's getting agitated again and Louis takes a deep breath, steeling himself. "Tell me how you feel," he says. He keeps himself leaning against the wall, as far away from Harry as he can be. It's instinct to go touch Harry, to want to pull him into a hug and stroke his hair the way he always does when Harry is upset. But these panic attacks are an entirely different animal from day-to-day mood swings, and the last thing Harry needs right now is to feel crowded.

Harry shakes his head mutely and turns in a swift circle, crosses to the other side of the room and back again. His eyes are glinting wildly, and the way his reflection moves in the mirror makes Louis think of a restless animal, ready to climb the walls of its cage.

"Tell me how you feel," Louis prompts again, tone low and as soothing as he can manage.

"Trapped," Harry says. "Scared. I'm scared, Lou."

"I know."

Louis knows, he knows that Harry doesn't mean he's scared of the people in the audience, he doesn't actually think that the world will end when he walks out on that stage. What Harry is scared of is this feeling, right now, this fear and panic that's gripped his heart and his lungs and his body.

"I'm gonna die," Harry says. "I'm so scared and I'm trapped and I can't breathe and I, I'm gonna die Lou I can't -"

"You're not gonna die," Louis says, and repeats it, over and over. "You're okay, Harry. You're okay." His hands have curled into tight fists to stop himself from reaching out, but this is literally all he can do. All he can give to Harry right now is his voice and his words, his reassurance.

Louis doesn't tell Harry that there's nothing to be frightened of. It would be idiotic, because of _course_ there's something to be frightened of. What Harry's feeling right now is real, real and painful and terrifying.

Harry stops pacing, leans his hands against the bathroom counter and closes his eyes. His breathing has gotten much worse, chest hitching in short, painful gasps.

"Harry," Louis says again. "I need you to breathe for me, okay. You gotta just breathe, you can do it, go on now,"

It's not working, Harry glances over at him and his eyes are more wild than ever, wide and terrified. It's time for Louis to change tactics.

Louis' nails dig so hard into his palms he's sure they'll bleed. "Can I touch you?"

Harry just looks at him, his chest still rising too fast. "I don't know," he says hoarsely.

"Can I try?"

Harry stares at him for another moment, nods. He's looking at Louis like Louis could be his salvation, like Louis can fix him, fix everything. It terrifies Louis, it really does because he can't hold this beautiful boy's life in his hands like that, it's too precious and too perfect to be entrusted to him. He takes it anyway, because Harry is offering it.

Slowly, so that Harry can stop him at any moment, Louis moves to stand behind him. Their eyes meet in the mirror and Louis asks the question silently. Harry swallows and nods again.

Careful not to touch anywhere else just yet, Louis presses his chest against Harry's back. He lets his mouth hover near Harry's ear. "We're gonna count your breaths, okay? I'll do it with you."

"O-okay."

Louis concentrates on his own breathing, pressing as close as he can so Harry can feel his chest rising and falling against his back. "Count in for two," Louis whispers, and breathes. "Out for two."

Breathes.

It takes a long minute for Harry to even try it, but he does. In for two. Out for two.

"Good," Louis praises softly. He takes a risk and moves slightly closer, his hands coming around to rest on Harry's forearms. "In for four," he murmurs. Breathes. "Out for four." Breathes.

Harry's eyes are closed but his breath is shuddering out of him, slowing down in tiny increments until he manages the four count.

"Good," Louis says again. "You're doing so well."

Louis lets his hand travel down Harry's arms, over his thin wrists to his elegant hands. They're trembling, but they let Louis' fingers slip between the gaps and intertwine them. Harry gasps and holds on tight, so tight because Louis is his lifeline right now.

"And in for six," Louis whispers against Harry's ear. Breathes. His chest rising slow and steady against Harry's back. "Out for six." Breathes. Their hands clenching together. "You're alright. You're okay. You're okay."

Breathes.

 

 

 

 

Most panic attacks don't actually last more than ten minutes, usually. It's amazing to Louis how quickly it all passes, how Harry thought he was going to die a mere few minutes ago.

They count breaths together until Harry can do it himself, until his fingers loosen around Louis' own. He sags against Louis' chest, exhausted, wrung out. Knowing he's allowed to touch now, Louis indulges his own needs for a moment. He lets go of Harry's hands and wraps his arms around his waist instead, holds him tight and close and buries his face in Harry's thick curls. Harry lets him, stays there in his embrace as they both start to come back to reality.

Finally, Harry sighs and Louis allows his grip to loosen. Harry turns around to face him with a shaky smile.

"Alright?" Louis says. He leans around Harry slightly and wets one hand in the sink, strokes cool fingers over the other boy's flushed cheeks while Harry's eyes close in relief. When they open, his eyes are clearer, brighter. "Alright," Harry confirms. "Thank you." He's so sincere, his voice and his eyes and the hand tucked in a needy curl against Louis' hip saying everything else. _Thank you for knowing what I need, thank you for being here, thank you for understanding._

Louis would kiss him now, he really would, but he's tried kissing Harry after one of them threw up before and it was a truly disgusting experience. He may love Harry like crazy, but he's just not going there again. He settles for pressing his mouth against Harry's cheeks and his hair, his neck. Harry doesn't smell very good, but it's worth it anyway.

When they step away from each other, Harry looks very close to his normal self. He rinses his mouth out again, takes another piece of gum from Louis, and bends over to do his stupid hair-fixing move, sweeping it back over his face as he stands.

"You can come in now." Harry's voice is rueful and warm.

Instantly, the bathroom door opens and lets in a tumble of worried boys, pushing each other out of the way to get to their friend.

"How are you feeling?" Liam says anxiously. He's pulling out the puppy eyes, big and deep brown and so worried that Louis has to lean over and give him a quick hug, muttering "Our Daddy Direction," in his hair. Liam hugs him back, albeit confusedly. "But is he okay?"

"I'm fine," Harry says. He's got Niall tucked under one arm and Zayn's hand on his back. "Seriously, guys. I'm fine. Let's just go kill this show, yeah?"

Niall's tentative smile turns into an exuberant grin. "Yeah!" Liam and Zayn are nodding, looking weak with relief, and the three other boys start to head back toward their dressing room.

Louis doesn't ask Harry whether he's sure he's okay. He doesn't need to, because Harry's hand is in his, tugging him out of the bathroom, his smile just as excited as it ever is before a show. "Come on," Harry is saying. "Let's do this."

Louis smiles back, bright. "Let's do this."  
  



End file.
